Into Madness
by mgowriter
Summary: Saul is taken prisoner by an Al-Qaeda cell in Malaysia. What will Carrie do and what does she go through to get him back?
1. Chapter 1

**mgowriter's notes**: In episode 5 ("Blind Spot") of the first season, Carrie briefly mentioned that Saul spent 3 months in a prison in Malaysia. This is my take on what could've happened.

Also a warning: some swear words ahead; similar in level to what's been said on the show

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Carrie unlocked the metal door to her third story apartment and slid into the dark room. She shifted the lock back into position, pulled off the laminated press pass clipped to her shirt, and surveyed the room. The curtain near the closest window was open a fraction of an inch, letting in just enough sunlight for her to make out the familiar shadows of the room.

The desert heat that crawled through the walls and collected in the small space was almost suffocating. It pushed against her lungs, making every breath an effort. She pulled off the hijab around her head as she moved to the small desk and turned on the laptop. Her fingers tapped nervously on the table.

After a few seconds, she opened the top drawer to grab a small plastic bottle. She twisted the cap open. Only two pills spilled into her hand.

_Shit_.

She placed the pills back into the bottle. The computer hummed along as it booted up. Her fingers resumed their restless tapping, this time followed by her leg.

A muffled thud sounded below her. She stood quickly to look outside. There was no one at the front entrance of the building. She turned back at the door, noting it was still locked. After a deep breath, she returned to the computer.

A quick glance at the screen told her she hadn't received any new messages. Her expression turned into a frown. It had been three days. Something was wrong.

Carrie walked back to the window on impulse, and looked down into the street. A young Afghan boy in tattered beggars' clothes played with a deflated soccer ball. Two women dressed in blue burqas walked by. Further down the street, a man stood next to a wooden cart, advertising a variety of fruit. It was midday in Kandahar. Most people were indoors, seeking shelter from the heat.

The sweat began to trickle down the back of Carrie's shirt as she paced the perimeter of the small room. She tried to clear her mind; forced herself to think through the sweltering heat. After a quick deliberation, she returned to the desk and dug out a satellite phone that had never been used. _Emergencies only_, Saul's voice sounded in her head.

She pressed the power button and watched the screen light up. Her fingers began to dial a number from memory.

. . .

The phone rang for ten long seconds before someone picked up on the other end.

"This is Estes."

"David," Carrie replied, sounding surprised. "Where's Saul?"

"Carrie." There was a pause. "You're not supposed to be contacting him through this number."

"I haven't heard from him in three days. Where is he?"

"He's busy," said Estes. "On assignment. And I'm ending this call. Your cover's at risk."

"Tell him to get back to me," Carrie interjected. "I need one of his contacts that can get me eyes on Al-Masri. He's meeting with Abu Nazir, here, tomorrow at noon. This is big, David. Tell him I need that contact."

"The meeting's confirmed?" Estes asked.

Carrie shook her head. "I'm going to confirm it. When they meet. That's why I need the name."

There was another pause on the line, longer this time. "Saul's not going to be able to get you the contact."

"What?" Carried said in disbelief. "Did you hear what I just said? Al-Masri is meeting with Nazir. What the hell is going on back there?"

"Are you running any other active ops right now?" Estes asked.

"Just this one," Carrie replied. "Why?"

"I need you back in Langley for a few days. I'm not going to tell you why on the phone. I'll see you when you get in."

The line went dead.

Carrie stood rooted to the floor. The temperature in the already intolerable room had risen with her activity, but a numbing chill snaked through her body. He didn't need to tell her. Saul was in trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

**mgowriter's notes**: Does anyone else feel paranoid about their search history after doing research for a Homeland story?

The government: "Why were you looking up terrorist connections in Malaysia?"

Me: "…for fanfic?"

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Carrie glanced impatiently at her watch. The sound of the black dial ticking away the seconds reverberated in her head. It had been twenty three hours since her conversation with Estes. Four plane rides later, she was sitting in the back of a taxi cab on her way to CIA headquarters in Langley.

"Can't you go any faster?" she asked the driver, who looked at her in his rearview mirror.

"Lady, I'm already going ten over the speed limit. I don't get paid enough for this."

Carrie fumbled for her wallet, coming up with eight hundred Afghani and three twenty-dollar bills. Barely enough to pay for the ride itself.

She sat back against the seat in frustration. Her foot tapped nervously against the door with a mind of its own. She looked at her watch again. Thirty seconds had passed. She turned her attention to the window. The scenery speeding by was surreal. There was too much color; too much green.

. . .

Carrie pushed open the muted glass door to Saul's office. She didn't know what she expected to find, but what she saw unsettled her more than she was willing to admit.

The office was clean. Pristine. Saul's desk gleamed in the middle of the room, emitting a smell of artificial lemon cleaner rather than the familiar dark roast coffee that was always in a mug seated at the left hand corner. His chair was perfectly centered, facing the bookshelf across the room. Not one piece of paper stood out of place. The small garbage bin stood in the corner. A thin layer of dust had collected inside. Except for the janitor, no one had been in the room for weeks.

Carrie dropped her bag onto the floor as she took a seat in the black leather chair. She opened the center drawer of the desk. His hand written post-it notes, usually strewn about in a rainbow of colors, was arranged in neat rows. His pens were collected in their correct container, all facing the same direction. She opened one of the side drawers and found the same thing. Someone had meticulously gone through every piece of paper in his office. She stared at the picture of Saul and Mira on the desk. Looking for what?

. . .

Estes' secretary glanced up from her computer. She was dressed in a tailored suit with perfectly manicured fingernails that hovered over her keyboard, and frowned at the sight of Carrie's sweat and dirt-stained outfit.

"I need to see him."

"He's on the phone," the secretary replied. "Do you have an appointment?"

Carrie ran a hand through her unwashed hair. She almost laughed at the secretary's question. Her eyes darted toward Estes' office. Before the other woman could object, she closed the distance to the door and forced it open.

Estes looked up from his desk, phone in hand. "I'm going to need to call you back," he said into the receiver.

"You're back earlier than I thought," he said to Carrie, as he stood to close the door.

"What the hell is going on?" she said, ignoring his comment. "Where's Saul?"

Estes sighed. He leaned against the desk. "I'm going to be straight with you. Saul was on assignment to obtain intel on a branch of Al-Qaeda that has recently taken root in the city of Kluang, Malaysia. He was captured by the same group. We believe he's being held in a prison just outside the city."

"Al-Qaeda?" Carrie shook her head. "That doesn't make sense. What are they doing in Malaysia? Where did the intel come from? When was he captured?"

"Three months ago," said Estes. "We believe they're working with the terrorist group Jemaah Islamiyah to set up a new channel for bringing jihadist volunteers into Pakistan via water routes."

"That's impossible. The last contact I had with him was three days ago."

"I've…been sending you the messages. They weren't from Saul."

Carrie stared at Estes in disbelief. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me about this earlier?"

"You were on assignment," he replied. "Your cover would've been compromised."

"Fuck you, David," Carrie said, the anger rising inside her. "This is you trying to cover up your mess."

"Look," Estes said, "we've been working hard to get him out."

Carrie shook her head. She paced the small space between the desk and visitors' chairs. Saul. Jemaah Islamiyah. It didn't make sense. Three months. She had seen prisoners in Afghanistan held for three months; grown men who were starved, tortured, kept in darkness. Grown men who had their tongues cut out and begged to die in grotesque charades.

She stopped pacing; forced the images out of her head.

"Mira?" she asked.

"She doesn't know," Estes replied.

Carrie sat in one of the chairs across from the desk. It was too cold in the office—a luxury unimaginable in Afghanistan yet it made everything fake and foreign. Saul, dead. Saul, tortured and dead. Saul, missing fingers, hands, alive, tortured, and dead. The artificially cooled air caused the hairs on her arm to stand upright. Stop thinking. Stop. Where did she leave the pills? Stop. She had to get him out.

"Carrie." Estes' voice pulled her back. "Did you hear what I just said?"

She blinked. Estes stared at her.

"We have a lead on where they're holding him. We're sending in a tactical team."

"When?" she asked.

"They're on their way."

"I'm going to Kluang," Carrie said.

"I'm sorry, I can't let you go. It's coordinated by the Army Special Ops Command." She gave David credit for at least looking like he felt bad about telling her the news.

"Why tell me then, David?" Renewed anger swept through her body. "Why not keep me in the dark, like you've been doing? Why have me back here if I can't do anything to help?"

"Because I know you, and I know you would've found a way to get near that meeting between Al-Masri and Nazir without the right people or the right backup, and get captured, killed, or worse. I'm doing you a favor, Carrie."

"I'm going to Kluang," she repeated herself. "With or without your help."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Ma'am."

She woke with a start.

She was in a truck, surrounded by the jungle. She was soaked.

"Are you okay, ma'am?"

She turned awkwardly in her bullet-proof vest to look at man in the adjacent seat. His uniform triggered the memory she needed. Corporal Steven Perez was the driver, and the army's version of a babysitter.

Carrie nodded, noting the sweat that dripped down the Corporal's war-painted forehead. She was used to the heat, but not the humidity. It felt like they were slowly basting in an oven.

"Here," Perez undid the Velcro from one of his pockets and produced an individually wrapped, small yellow pill.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Caffeine. The closest thing to a cup of coffee out here. Looks like you can use some."

"Thank you," said Carrie as she pocketed the pill. She forced herself to smile despite the headache that pounded at the back of her skull. Hypomania. The clinical term for slightly crazy. Although sleep deprived, she could feel the unnatural energy that radiated through her body. She couldn't risk a stimulant pushing her into something she couldn't control.

Perez returned the smile. The blue eyes that peeked out from underneath his helmet were striking against the deep greens and browns of the camouflage paint.

"So what's it like to be an operations field liaison for the CIA?"

"What?"

"That's your title, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah, yes," Carried replied. The made up title Estes must've come up with in order for her to observe the mission. The radio buzzed before she could continue. There was a second of static, then silence.

Perez leaned forward. "Looks like they're about ready."

There was another second of static, followed by a voice.

"This is alpha team leader, ready for harvest. Stand by for count. Pigeon one."

"In position," a second voice sounded.

"Pigeon two," the team leader demanded.

"Go for pigeon two."

"Scarecrow," he continued down the list.

"On the field."

"Betsy one."

"Go for Betsy one. It's quiet out here."

"Betsy two."

Perez reached for the radio. "Go for Betsy two. Nothing but grass."

Carrie looked at him. "We're Betsy two?"

He laughed. "It's the Sergeant Gunner's idea. He's all business in the office, but likes to have a little fun when we're out. Alpha team is the six guys that are on the ground; the pigeons are the snipers; Scarecrow is a two-man decoy team in case shit hits the fan, and the Betsys? We're the lookout, the background. We stay in place and chew the cud. It's not the most exciting job, but we're in the safest position possible. We're the first to know if trouble's coming and the furthest away from the firefight."

"And if shit does hit the fan?"

The Corporal's expression changed. "Then our mission is to neutralize the threat, get the CIA agent that these motherfuckers have been keeping as prisoner, you, and ourselves out of here as fast as humanly possible. No one gets left behind. This is what we do and we do it well, ma'am."

Carrie leaned back into her seat. The fingers of her right hand began their familiar dance on the metal door of the truck. She didn't know whether to be comforted or worried by Perez's absolute conviction.

. . .

The radio had gone silent over five minutes ago. If all went well, they wouldn't hear anything until the rescue was over.

Carrie unfolded her arms for the fiftieth time, and folded them back together. The foreign sound of an insect calling from beyond the nearest tree made her shoulders involuntarily tense. She placed her hand into her pocket to grab the small piece of paper that contained the last two pills in her possession. There was no time to stop at her sister's house. Two blue pills and nine thousand miles until she could get more.

She tightened her hold until the paper collapsed under the force. No. She could wait. She would take them later.

"Are you okay, ma'am?"

"Is it supposed to take this long?" she countered.

"We're in the normal time frame. Remember, no news is good news."

Carrie clasped her hands together in her lap, only to unclasp them a second later.

She looked down at her watch. Five minutes and twenty-seven seconds since they last heard from Sergeant Gunner.

"Do you think—" she stopped in midsentence at the sound of distant popping noises. Gunfire. Carrie held her breath.

The popping continued, increased and almost doubled in strength, then died down. She looked at Perez. A much louder sound reached their ears, followed by a second boom.

"Grenades," he said with a frown.

"Grenades?" Carrie repeated. Her heartbeat quickened. The noise in her head buzzed with a higher intensity. "This was supposed to be a stealth mission."

The radio cracked with static. "Package is wrapped and secure." Sergeant Gunner sounded out of breath. "Male, six feet, 170, non-mobile. All teams to rally point."

She felt the vibrations of the truck as the engine roared to life. Perez drove through the plants that concealed them from the main road, switching to a higher gear.

"What does non-mobile mean?" Carrie demanded from the passenger's seat. "Does that mean he's alive or dead?"

"It means he's unable to walk. They're carrying him out in a stretcher."

"Does that mean he's alive or dead?" she asked, much louder this time. She was yelling, but she didn't care.

"I don't know, ma'am."

"If you're not telling me—"

"I don't know, ma'am," Perez repeated, his eyes never leaving the road. "I'm telling you everything I know and I don't know."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

They arrived at the rally point first, a fork in the dirt road that branched off in two different directions. Carrie was out of the truck before it fully came to a stop. Perez called out a warning, but she couldn't hear him above the now frantic noise in her ears.

Take your pills, Carrie. She brushed the thought aside. Take them now. Her eyes darted frantically down the road.

"Where are they?" she yelled back to Perez.

Perez opened the driver's door and stepped out, holding an assault rifle at his side. He scanned their surroundings quickly.

"Ma'am, I need you to get in the car."

"Where are they?" Carried demanded again. She circled back from a few feet away. A wave of adrenaline rushed into her body. Her fingers tingled. Her hands shook.

"Ma'am," the Corporal commanded, his voice firm, "they're at least ten minutes out. I need you to lower your voice and get back in the truck. Do you understand?"

When Carrie didn't answer, he pulled her roughly toward the truck. She fought her way out of his hold. Deep breath. One, two, breathe. Climb back into the truck. Sit. Breathe.

. . .

Ten minutes was an eternity. Her hands didn't know how to stay still. The electricity running through her body was terrible and familiar. Every nerve fiber was alert, in position, and ready to fire. Perez stared at her. He was regretting volunteering to babysit her. Take one for the team. She laughed. Did he just say that? The dial on her watch slowed. Five seconds. Ten. She wasn't going to get to sixty. She forced herself to stop. Hands together. The coiled black cord from the radio began to move. It grew scales and beady green eyes and a flickering tongue. The cord slithered toward her wrist.

"They're here."

Carrie looked up from the console. She craned her out the window. A circle of dust surrounded the camouflaged exterior of a similarly armored vehicle.

She ran up onto the road as it stopped. There were two soldiers in the front, and no one else in the back. It was the other lookout car.

"Where is he?" she screamed at them.

The soldiers turned to look at Perez. "They're two minutes out."

The next two minutes were a blur. When the large army truck finally rolled into view, Carrie was the first to catch up with it. She hauled herself into the bed of the truck. There were four soldiers on the metal sheet—two with assault rifles pointed and on alert, and two that hovered around a still figure in the cloth stretcher.

Saul.

She felt hands on her arms, pushing her back. There was yelling, but she didn't hear the words. She tried to surge forward, but they were too strong. Their fingers dug into her flesh.

"Let her go," she heard someone yell from the ground. Perez. Thank you, Perez.

"What the fuck is going on here?" Someone else. The voice on the radio. Gunner. She didn't hear any more of what he said. Her eyes were on Saul. He still hadn't moved.

Finally, they let her rip free and she fell forward next to the soldier closest to Saul.

One, two, three seconds passed. He didn't move; didn't breathe.

Carrie felt her face contort. Tears stung her eyes until everything in front of her twisted into a blur. This wasn't happening. This was a hallucination. She was at her desk in her apartment in Kandahar and she was hallucinating because she forgot to bring a damn refill for her pills.

. . .

She wiped away her tears. Her eyes cleared and she knew it was real. She was sitting on the back of truck in the middle of nowhere in Malaysia, and Saul was dead.

A hand touched her shoulder. Perez. He had taken over the spot of one of the soldiers in the truck.

"They said he was passing in an out of consciousness," he said softly.

She stared at him as the vehicle began to move underneath them. "You mean he's not…?"

Perez shook his head. "Not yet. There's a medevac waiting near a safe house twenty clicks from here."

Carrie turned back to Saul. His clothes wore were ripped and filthy. Countless bruises peeked through, in a palette of ugly blues, purples, and greens. A layer of dried blood crusted around the deeper cuts. Some were infected, and slowly oozing a cloudy yellow liquid. Saul's left leg had been hurriedly wrapped by the rescue team from the upper thigh down to the knee. The clean, white bandage was out of place next to the mixture of dirt, sweat, and mud that clung onto his skin.

She placed a hand on his forehead. It burned with an intensity that scared her.

"Saul," she said next to his ear. She breathed to control the shaking in her voice. "Wake up, Saul. Can you hear me?"

He stirred, but his face only settled on a look of pain.

"Come on, Saul, look at me."

Saul groaned as the truck hit a bump and his wrist landed on the hard truck bed.

"Look at me, Saul," Carrie tried again. Her heart sunk. Her lungs burned. Take a breath. "Please. Please look at me."

His eyes fluttered open for a second, and then closed. He tried again, and managed to focus on the image in front of him.

Carrie smiled behind fresh tears. "Hi," she said with relief.

Saul's eyes were fixed on her, but he didn't respond.

"Saul?" she asked again. His eyes were glass. They looked straight through her.

"Who…?" he asked weakly.

"It's Carrie," she said with renewed panic. "Saul?"

He motioned for her to come closer.

"Mira," he whispered, "did they kill her?"

Carrie shook her head. "No. She's safe. She's at home. She's waiting for you."

He didn't respond. His eyelids slowly closed.

"Saul?" Carrie said, shaking him with her unsteady hands. "Stay with me, okay?"

He remained still. Carrie felt her lower lip tremble and her control slipping further away. The truck hit another bump, harder this time.

"Carrie," he finally said with effort, opening his eyes.

She leaned in to catch his words.

"Tell Farrin his driving is getting worse by the day."

She froze at his words. Farrin was one of their old drivers in Afghanistan. The Taliban had emptied an entire magazine of Kalashnikov bullets into his body just outside of Kabul, five years ago. Thirty bullets for working with the enemy. God is great. The sound of a soccer stadium full of bloodthirsty, desperate people. Kill the traitor. Thirty bullets for saving their lives countless times in the two years he drove for them. God is great.

Saul's hand slipped from Carrie's grasp as he leaned back into the stretcher.

"Saul," Carrie said again, blinking away the images of Farrin's execution. She squeezed his hand harder. There was no response. New tears sprang from her eyes. She was going to lose him, and just like Farrin, she was going to watch him die.

. . .

The wind picked up around them, strong and violent until the noise of the helicopter blades were unmistakable. The trucks stopped. Half of the soldiers jumped out to set up a perimeter. Four other men grabbed hold of the stretcher and lifted it off the truck.

Carrie forced herself to move, to get up and follow them. The noise from the spinning blades was deafening. The wind whipped her hair into her face. She reached the helicopter and saw that Saul's stretcher had already been buckled in.

One of the medics shook his head. "I can't take you on board," he said over the roar of the blades.

"I'm his escort. I'm the…" she fumbled for the fake title that David created for her. "I've been cleared," she yelled out of desperation. Her eyes were wild, frantic. She was going to lose him if she couldn't see him and if she couldn't see him he was going to die in the helicopter.

The medic shook his head. "Sorry ma'am, but I have my orders." He turned to signal the pilot for takeoff.

Carrie lunged for the open cabin, but again found herself held back by strong hands. This time, the muzzle of the medic's rifle was also pointed at her head.

"I've got her," she heard Perez say next to her. She struggled against him. He had her pinned to the ground, with her arms wrapped securely behind her. She screamed at him, obscenities she didn't know she was capable of saying. It was no use. He held on until the helicopter took off, and finally released her when it rose above the tree line.

She didn't move. Her forehead touched the ground. She felt the crushed grass on her skin and for a second it felt good. Her arms were still behind her. She was shaking. She caught her breath, only to lose it again with the deep sobs that came. She was losing control. She had lost control.

"He's going to be okay," someone said next to her. The quiet surrounded them and all she could hear were the horrible noises coming from her throat.

"You're going to be okay," the voice said again. "I'm sorry about this."

Carrie felt a sharp sting on her neck. The noises softened, slowly, until everything stopped. Sleep overtook her as she turned toward the sky. The same familiar color. Light, milky blue. She reached for the crumpled paper in her pocket. Time to take your pills, Carrie.


End file.
